by Silver James
It was her turn to offer a desultory shrug. “People are still gonna talk.”
“Yes, they will. You need to be prepared for that. Especially since Chase won’t always be around to shield you.”
“What does that mean?” she faced Tucker and asked. “Shield me from who?”
“His family. The media. Anyone familiar with the Barron name.”
Chase would deal with his family so that wasn’t a concern. The media? Yeah, that would suck. “Maybe I can fly under the radar. I won’t use his name when I enter my events.”
“Sorry, babe. That won’t work. The Barron name will be plastered all over your truck and trailer. And Chase isn’t exactly shy and retiring.”
That got an eye roll. “No kidding.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back in an attempt to ease the tight muscles in her neck. After taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and offered Tucker her I’m-gonna-do-this face. Then she spoiled it all by asking, “He’s not going to be monogamous, is he?”
Tucker’s expression was full of sympathy. “I doubt it. But you’ll have to be.”
She laughed at that. “I haven’t had a date in two years.” Heading to the dressing room, she left Tucker standing there with his mouth hanging open.
Four hours later, they walked out of Leather and Lace with bags and boxes and more clothes and pairs of boots than Savannah had owned in her entire life. Tucker had convinced her to change from her jeans and T into a dress that reminded her a little of traditional Choctaw garb. Embroidery, ribbons, a full skirt, all in natural colors that Tucker insisted set off her golden-brown skin and dark hair. And new boots. Expensive new boots that fit her feet like gloves. The boot maker in L and L had spent an hour measuring, drawing and discussing leathers, heels, colors and stitching designs. Tucker refused to let her see the bill but she’d seen the price tags. Who in their right mind dropped almost twenty thousand dollars on clothes? Oh, yeah. Chase Barron and the women he was used to dating, for sure, but not plain ol’ Savannah Wolfe.
The last person she expected to see was Chase leaning up against Tucker’s sleek Mercedes SUV, looking all fashion-model perfect in his tailored suit, starched shirt and designer tie. The slow grin lighting up his face did all sorts of things to her bits and pieces—which she needed to ignore because she was not letting Chase get under her skirts. Skin. She meant skin. And he was just slick enough that he could charm his way right there if she gave him any room at all.
“You buy the store out?”
Blushing, she tried to say something but only stammered out nonsense.
Chase was suddenly there, his hands gently gripping her waist. “Whoa, kitten. Breathe. I was joking.”
Taking his advice, she inhaled several times. “I’m not a gold digger.” She murmured it under her last deep breath, but he heard her.
“I know that, Savannah.”
She stared into his eyes. “Do you? Do you really?”
Studying her face, Chase realized she was truly worried. “Yeah, kitten, I do.” He dropped his head to place a kiss on her forehead. “You aren’t Debbie.”
“Darla.”
“What? Oh, yeah, right. Darla. You aren’t her, Savannah. You aren’t that producer’s wife. You aren’t those two backup singers in Nashville. You’re just...you. You’re in a tight spot, and so am I. My money will help you out of yours. You marrying me gets my dad off my back. Trust me, I’d spend a small fortune to ensure that.”
“You are definitely doing that—spending a fortune.” She cocked her head to one side and studied him. He met her gaze without blinking. “Why me, Chase?”
“You’ve asked that before.”
“I still don’t get it. Why me?”
“Because you are you. You don’t want my money. My wealth makes you uncomfortable. You’re honest. In my world, that makes you pretty much one of a kind.”
“Wow. I don’t think I want to live in your world, if that’s the case.” She didn’t smile at him and he could feel her sincerity.
“Not always a good place to be, but I have the feeling it’s gonna be a little easier with you in it.”
Tucker cleared his throat with a discreet cough. “Cuz, take your lady to a late lunch. I’ll head back to the hotel with her stuff and see that it’s put away in your apartment.” He off-loaded everything into his SUV and disappeared, leaving the two of them standing in the parking lot.
“What are you hungry for?” Chase’s libido almost took him to his knees as Savannah stared up at him and licked her lips.
“Hungry for?”
He knew what he was hungry for. Keeping his hands-off promise might just kill him. He still couldn’t pinpoint what drew him to this untamed cowgirl but something damn sure did. “Food, kitten.”
“What are you hungry for?”
Her. He wanted to taste her—her mouth and other places. He willed his body to behave and plastered an easy smile on his face. Poker. They were playing emotional poker and he was a high-stakes player in this game. He made a quick decision and offered her a choice.
“Mexican or Chinese?”
“Mexican.”
Hot and spicy. Just like her. He all but groaned at the direction his thoughts kept taking and gestured toward his Jag to cover his reaction to her.
Chase shared his favorite hole-in-the-wall taqueria with her. He didn’t bring people here, except for Tucker, but his cousin didn’t count as people. He’d never even brought his brothers here. It felt right to be sitting at the scarred wooden table with Savannah, sharing street tacos and listening to her talk about life on the rodeo circuit. Their conversation fell into an easy rhythm, and he found himself sharing anecdotes of his childhood and the scrapes he and his twin got into.
More at ease with her and his decision, Chase paid the bill, and they headed to the marriage license bureau. They shuffled through the line, with more than a few covert glances cast their direction. He’d hoped to keep things low-key but cell phones were not-so-surreptitiously pointed at them. Savannah appeared unruffled, and his admiration ratcheted up another notch. That was good. She’d need to be unflappable when word of their marriage leaked, and they faced his father. Cyrus didn’t lose gracefully, and he’d do his damnedest to make them all pay.
Six
With license in hand, Chase steered the Jag toward the hotel. They hadn’t driven even a block before his cell phone rang. He punched the Bluetooth button, but Tucker didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“Mayday, Chase.”
He exchanged a humorous glance with Savannah as he answered. “Can’t be that bad, bud. What’s up?”
“Wanna bet? Oh, wait. This is Vegas. I don’t know if we have a spy or what, but your old man is on his way. Early.”
Chase growled. “Debbie.”
“Darla,” Savannah corrected.
Watching the traffic ahead, Chase made a quick decision. “We’ll get married now. I’m pulling into the Candelabra Wedding Chapel as we speak. When is the old man due to arrive?”
“My own spy says late tonight. After midnight.”
“Okay. We’ll stay out late.”
“I’ll cover.”
“You always do, cuz. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m keeping track, Chase. You owe me big-time.” Tucker chuckled, then dead air hummed over the car’s speakers.
Chase parked and cut the engine and swiveled to face Savannah. “Well, kitten, this is it. Your last chance to back out.”
He didn’t hold his breath, despite the inclination to do so. He was all sorts of a jerk for doing this, but standing up to his father without this pretense of a marriage wasn’t something he felt capable of managing. Besides, Savannah needed help. It wasn’t like she didn’t benefit from this deal.
Her chest swelled as she breathed
deeply. Her hands remained in her lap, clasped, and far more white-knuckled that he cared to see. Maybe she would cut and run. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. Dealing with him, even on a limited basis, wouldn’t be easy. He continued to watch her, waiting for her answer.
Savannah curled her lips between her teeth, straightened her shoulders and faced him. “Let’s do this.”
Whew! He’d dodged a bullet, and he knew it. Liking the woman he’d be tied to for a year even more, he winked and opened his door. “Yes, ma’am. Let’s git ’er done.”
They walked into what was essentially a lavender boudoir. Satin draped the walls, and there were plush velvet sofas and a dark purple runner that led them straight to a woman with swirls of silver curls—curls faintly tinged with purple. She greeted them with a fire-engine red smile. Her lace cocktail gown was the exact same tint as the walls.
“Welcome to the Candelabra Wedding Chapel!” Her eyes landed on the paper in Chase’s hand. “Oh, excellent. You already have your license. So many young lovers don’t, you know. Come, come.” The woman clapped her hands in glee as she led them toward a long counter and an old-fashioned brass cash register. She slipped behind the counter and pushed a gold menu toward them. “We have many packages available and will happily create a custom experience for a slight extra charge.”
Glancing at the list of services, Chase pointed to the bottom—and most expensive—package. “That one. How soon?”
“No waiting, dearie. That is our Stardust ceremony. Very romantic.” The woman turned shrewd eyes on Savannah. “Do you need a wedding gown, lovey? We have a wide selection to choose from. Only a little added charge to rent.”
Chase glanced over at Savannah. She looked fine to him. Her outfit—an airy skirt, beribboned blouse and a fringed shawl—would be considered Western chic. It’d do. “What she’s wearing is suitable.”
A flash of disappointment registered on the woman’s face before her mask fell back into place. “Flowers? Rings?”
Oh, yeah. He studied the menu more closely. The package he’d picked came with a set of his and her gold wedding bands and a silk flower bouquet. That’d be enough. “We’ll take the ones that come with the Stardust.”
“Fine.” The hostess sounded a bit snippy but she pulled out a velvet ring tray. “Pick any two on the bottom three rows.”
He selected a band and held it out to Savannah to try on. Too small. He grabbed the next ring in the row. It was slightly too large, but again, it would suffice. Under the hawk-eyed gaze of the woman, he picked one for himself. He didn’t wear jewelry so it would end up in his drawer later.
Moments later, the woman handed a bundle of white silk roses wrapped with satin ribbon to Savannah. “Do you have a witness?”
The front door opened with an electronic rendition of the opening notes of “Moonlight Serenade” and Tucker walked in.
“Yes,” Chase told the woman. “We do.”
“Will this be cash or credit card?”
Tucker reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick fold of bills. “Cash. How much?”
The woman punched the keys on the old cash register, muttering to herself. “That will be three hundred twenty-four dollars and twenty-nine cents, including tax.”
She sorted the cash into the register drawer, then ushered them through a doorway. The room wasn’t huge and carried on the purple theme. The hostess—called “Mother” by the officiant, a man with a lavender pompadour—seated herself at a linen-draped table and punched the button on a karaoke machine. She picked up a cheap digital camera and began taking pictures. A photo package was part of the deal.
Tucker offered to walk Savannah down the aisle—all six feet of it. She had never been a girlie-girl dreaming of her Prince Charming and a fairy-tale wedding, but this was pretty much a joke. Tucker’s expression was studied, though he offered her hand a sympathetic pat where it rested just below the crook of his elbow. Means to an end, she reminded herself. That’s all this was. Chase Barron wasn’t a knight in shining armor, and while she might appear to be in distress—financially, anyway—she was no shy and retiring damsel in need of rescue. She’d rescue herself, thank you very much. Raising her chin, she squared her shoulders and focused on the man waiting about eight steps away.
The minister, dressed in a gray tux trimmed in violet and wearing a lilac-dyed fur cape, stood between two tall brass candelabras with electric candles flickering in time to the music. A medley of Liberace’s music filtered over the minister’s words. Loving and obeying were mentioned, richer, poorer, in sickness and health, and that whole death disclaimer. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days. If Savannah had a calculator, she’d figure the hours and minutes until she could return to Vegas and file for divorce.
“I do,” she said when prompted.
“I do.” When his turn came, Chase sounded about as enthusiastic as she did. He slid the too-big ring on her finger, and she made a mental note to get some tape to make it fit.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Her breath froze in her chest, and she couldn’t even swallow. She’d been staring at the knot in Chase’s tie during the recitation of their vows, but now she had to look up. Her gaze met his, and his heated expression thawed her paralysis. Before she could inhale, his mouth lowered to hers, capturing her lips. He nibbled on them, nipping her bottom lip before sweeping his tongue over it to ease the slight sting from his bite. One arm curved around her waist, pulling her hips tight against his. He was definitely happy to see her.
Her blood drained from her brain to parts more feminine as his free hand cupped her cheek and tilted her head so he could deepen the kiss. She locked her knees to keep them from shaking, and her eyelids fluttered to a close. Her nipples pebbled as her breasts encountered his chest, and she gripped his lapels in sheer self-defense.
Savannah had no clue how much time had elapsed before she surfaced from the sexual haze of that kiss. She blinked open her eyes, caught the smug satisfaction in Chase’s expression and hated that she’d fallen for his ploy. The man was a player, plain and simple. And she’d entered into a marriage of convenience with him. Any feelings she might have purely complicated matters.
A discreet cough caused her to loosen her hands, give a push against Chase’s muscled chest and step away. Tucker looked amused, and Mother and the faux Liberace appeared ready to proceed with pictures. Chase just preened. Savvie managed not to slap the smirk off his face.
They posed for pictures, her expression as fake as their marriage. In name only, she reminded herself. But what a name. Ten minutes later, she walked out with a CD of photos documenting essentially a marriage for hire, a gold-plated wedding band that didn’t fit her finger and a bedraggled bouquet of fake flowers. That pretty much summed up everything about her. They should do a reality show about her: My Big Fat Fake Wedding.
In the parking lot, Tucker dropped a kiss on the top of her head and softly squeezed her shoulders. “I’ll head back and cut Cyrus off at the pass when he arrives. I’d tell you to check into a suite at one of the other hotels, but that would be bad for business—the CEO of Barron Entertainment spending his wedding night somewhere other than his own resort? Yeah, no. I did, however, make reservations for a private dining room, lakeside, at Solstice. They’ve agreed to stay open—for a rather large fee—until the two of you leave.”
Savvie shifted her gaze between the two men. “Solstice?”
“Five-star restaurant. Great steaks. And froufrou food,” Chase explained. “The main thing is we’ll have privacy and good food until Tuck calls to say the coast is clear.”
Dinner was definitely a five-star affair. The room was lavish—like something from a Hollywood blockbuster. They’d been whisked through the line by the manager himself and escorted through the magnificently decorated restaurant to their “room.” The place reminded her
of a romance-book cover—something with sheikhs or barbarian princes. The man sitting across from her was certainly rich enough to be a prince, and handsome enough to grace the cover of a romance. She studied him over the rim of her champagne flute. She’d lost track of how many glasses Chase plied her with, but she admitted she liked the floaty feeling.
Chase retrieved her glass and set it on the table before taking her hand and urging her to stand. “Let’s dance.”
“Um...” She did her best not to stumble. “I’m not much of a dancer.” Savvie could Texas two-step and do the Cotton Eyed Joe. Barely. But fancy dancing? Like waltzes or fox-trots or something?
“There’s not much to it, kitten. We put our arms around each other and sway in time to the music.”
“Oh. Okay. I can do that.” She could, right?
He led her to the small dance floor, and a song that was vaguely familiar teased their feet to move. True to his word, he curled his arms around her waist and she put hers around his neck.
She was about five-eight in her boots and he stood almost a head taller. Her cheek nestled comfortably against the hollow of his shoulder and with her ear pressed against his chest, she could hear his heartbeat keeping time with the music.
Her fingers played with the fringe of black hair covering his collar. His hair was thick and soft, a little too long, but she liked the feel of it against her skin.
He was definitely handsome. Square jaw that was sculpted but not knife sharp. Straight nose, high cheekbones. Eyes the color of hot coffee. She stared into those eyes for a long moment, her hands dropping to his broad, muscular shoulders. She read humor there. Mischief. A hint of lust and...a secret. Chase Barron had secrets. He blinked and the moment passed.
Tall, dark, handsome—and rich to boot. The Barrons were Oklahoma royalty. A local paper once ran a cartoon depicting Cyrus Barron seated on a throne, wearing a cowboy hat with a tiara, like the ones rodeo queens wore. His five sons stood behind him, each a prince carrying the symbol of his specialty—government, law, oil, entertainment and security. A king wearing a “Midas” name tag along with caricatures of various world leaders lined up looking for handouts. Mr. Barron bought the paper in retaliation. Now that she’d been exposed to the reality of Barron wealth? Yeah, that cartoon was pretty much dead-on.
